


oh darling, you’re just divine (part of heaven’s pure design)

by chahakyn



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Prophetic Messages, Prophets, Reference to Past Coralee/Richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chahakyn/pseuds/chahakyn
Summary: Richard Strand is a modern-day prophet, the words of the gods spilling from his lips. Alex Reagan finds that fascinating.
Relationships: Alex Reagan/Richard Strand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	oh darling, you’re just divine (part of heaven’s pure design)

**Author's Note:**

> based off of this [ tumblr post](https://shizuoi.tumblr.com/post/621367258075234304/deaddoggod-modern-prophets-kids-with-messy-hair) i recently rediscovered:  
> (abrdiged ver.) modern prophets; messy hair and dark circles under their eyes w/ knowledge to bring nations to their knees; you’re more than mortal you are holy. you are loved by something more than human and that’s forever.  
> 

The moment Dr. Richard Strand walks into her office for the first time, Alex Reagan knows that he isn’t normal. She has her hunches, as any good reporter would. But she needs evidence, and Dr. Strand is not in the habit of making _anything_ easy. He’s always quick to shoot down any attempts she makes at prying.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” He says flatly, less of a question and more of reprimand, when she tries to poke a little too far into his past. Alex folds her arms against her chest and leans back, perfectly casual.

“It’s my job to ask questions.”

He doesn’t respond.

\---

There are times where she nearly touches on something, but that’s no surprise. Alex Reagan is nothing if not good at her job. Sometimes she can lure him into a sense of ease with her normal, run-of-the-mill questions before sliding a deeper inquiry neatly in line, and sometimes he answers before catching himself. His eyes will dart to her face, cool and intelligent gaze trying to read her mind. Trying to figure out what she wants. She only smiles placidly in return, calmly steering their interviews into more familiar territory. It’s all a game of cat and mouse, and she knows Dr. Strand fancies himself the cat. He’s quite brilliant, but that doesn’t mean he’s always right.

\---

One day, as they sort through some of the tapes he’d brought to her office, Strand suddenly freezes in place. There’s a beat of seemingly endless silence, where it feels like the air in the room has been sucked out. And then he turns on his heel and leaves without a word. His hands are shaking. He never brings it up, and neither does Alex.

It happens again. And again. And again. Always a moment of silence, where everything in the universe seems to be suspended, holding its breath. And then Strand swiftly exits. An explanation never follows.

\---

It isn’t until she finds herself at Strand’s home office that she gets her answer. The room gets that same, oxygen-sucking feeling, and Strand leaps to his feet. Alex rises too, noting the cornered look in his eyes. He’s home; there’s nowhere safe to escape to.

She reaches out. “Dr. Strand—”

He jerks back, stumbling. His chair upturns and clatters to the floor. She glances down at it before she looks back up at him. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his fingers clutch the edge of his desk, the wood creaking under the strength of his grip. His mouth opens and a jumble of words in a language Alex has never heard before pours out in a voice that isn’t _his_. His arms shake, knuckles white. Blood is beginning to trickle out of his nose.

“Richard,” Alex gasps, hands reaching forward to help him, somehow. Her fingers latch onto his wrist.

It _burns_ , touching him. She finds herself thrown back onto the floor by some burst of otherworldly energy. Her head throbs from the sudden movement and it takes a few moments to realize that the words have stopped. All she can hear is Strand’s labored breathing, ragged inhales like he can’t get enough air into his lungs.

And then, the desperate sound of rifling through paper. Alex looks up in a daze, watching him sweep reports and tapes off his desk as he looks for something. He must find it, because within seconds she can hear the hard scratch of his pencil on paper. Alex struggles to her feet, leaning against a chair for support as she watches Strand hunch over his desk. The movement of his hand has slowed, and while she can’t read the words, she can read his face. He looks exhausted, hollow. Like every drop of energy has been wrung out of him.

“Richard?” Alex holds her hand out, wincing as her mind suddenly registers the pain of the burn. Both she and Strand look down at the angry, red mark that covers her palm. His eyes harden.

“Leave.” It’s his own voice, hoarse but comforting in its familiar, deep timbre. But there’s a new edge to it now, harsh in its finality. As Alex stumbles out the door, her heart sinks at seeing him so weak, so angry. But her mind sings with satisfaction. _I knew it._

\---

He won’t return her calls. Voicemail after voicemail asking after him yields no response. Alex tries one last time.

_Dr. Strand…Richard…please. I haven’t told anyone, and I have no intention of doing so. I just want to make sure you’re alright_.

_[sigh]_

_Just…call me, okay?_

He doesn’t call back. But she does get a text. And she heads to his house, the door opening before her fist even touches the wood of the front door. Strand silently leads her into his office where he shuts the door behind her and locks it. It should be frightening, being trapped in a room with someone who is _clearly_ not human. She shouldn’t feel this at ease in his presence, given everything that’s happened. And yet, she does.

“What I tell you doesn’t leave this room, do you understand?”

Alex nods quickly. And then he explains everything.

\---

Dr. Richard Strand, a modern prophet. Alex had expected something, but it certainly hadn’t been that. There are a few hours of burning questions, to Strand’s exasperation and somewhat mild amusement (although he hides the latter fairly well). And then that’s it.

They fall back into the regular routine of investigation and Alex continues interviewing people. Except now when Alex feels the air in the room drop, she quickly herds Strand out with ready-made excuses on her tongue for whomever might be around.

He protests at first, citing that “I’ve always managed myself, Ms. Reagan.” But then the prophecies start to crop up more frequently than normal. They leave him worn and exhausted, the smudges under his eyes darkening as his lean figure grows gaunt. His protests lessen as the stack of papers recording his auguries grows.

They begin to allot some of their time spent studying the black tapes to the prophecies. Strand translates Latin, Greek, Ancient Sumerian, and even classical Hebrew, and then they research. Some of the predictions are horrifyingly massive in their scope. Nations will fall. A cathedral will burn to ash. Never-ceasing war. The appropriate authorities are contacted, and the issue is marked as being resolved.

Sometimes the predictions are small, seemingly barely worthy of attention in comparison. A tree fall will wreak havoc on a garden. The lost bracelet will never be found. A night spent with a loved one will be the last. Those are never settled; being devoid of specifics makes it virtually impossible to track down who it might affect. Those prophecies are the ones that hit Strand the hardest, gaze unfocused late at night as he stares at the papers, helpless despite his power.

And this is what makes Alex fall for him, in the end. His intelligence, dry wit, and good looks certainly help, but the effort he puts into this gift, this curse that was thrust upon him without a choice, softens her heart. He spends hours debating the translation of a single word, fights fiercely to alert those about the predictions he can help with and silently mourns the ones he can do nothing about.

She can’t _help_ but fall in love with him. It’s the one thing that he’s made easy for her.

\---

She’s curled against his side, tracing aimless patterns onto his chest, when the question that’s been on her mind for months slides out, unbidden.

“Have you ever given one that had to do with you?”

He doesn’t ask what she means. He doesn’t say anything. But Alex waits patiently.

“I didn’t realize it was mine until it was too late.” Richard’s voice is low and quiet, like saying it too loud will hurt him again. Alex can feel the rumble of his voice against her cheek. She presses on.

“What about me?” Alex sits up a little, looking down at him. “Us?”

He doesn’t respond. Alex sighs against his throat, her hand ghosting over the inside of his wrist. Richard laces their fingers together, almost carefully. As if the burn he gave her on her palm can still register pain.

“No. Not yet.” He pauses. “Hopefully, never.”

\---

The deeper they dive into the Black Tapes, the less time she has to even think about having a prophecy dedicated to her, let alone worry about.

Because then there’s the Order of the Cenophus. There’s Daeva Corp, holding more secrets than they thought possible. And then fucking Coralee Strand, of all people, rises from the dead. The further they dig into why the Order wants Richard, the more Alex’s head hurts. And the less she sleeps.

\---

They want him for a ritual, Thomas Warren reveals at a meeting in a café.

“Well, you can’t have him,” Alex hisses over their long-forgotten cups of lukewarm coffee. Thomas Warren only smiles, giving her a look that would have made the Alex Reagan from six months ago feel a low burn of desire in her stomach. But the handsome face she had so admired now incites nothing other than a feeling of disgust.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says, cool and calm.

Alex doesn’t reply, giving him a withering look as she hikes her bag over her shoulder and walks out of the café without a backwards glance. It was a stupid move; they need all the information he’s willing to give. But it feels good.

\---

They make up for her hot-headedness by getting some answers in the middle of one of their investigations. From one of the people who Simon claims “tries to raise a chorus of children’s voices. Like mine.” His face twists into a harsh scowl as he says that. Alex doesn’t press further.

Their subject is surprisingly informative, answering with very little encouragement. Apparently, the Order of the Cenophus is trying to call a _very_ powerful demon. They’re aiming to destroy the world and remake it according to the image the Codex Gigas paints. It feels so _predictable_ that Alex has to hold in the urge to smack her forehead in frustration. But what’s actually surprising is why they want Richard.

“Such a powerful prophet is a gift from the heavens. Light for dark, prophet for demon. An equal exchange is only logical. ” The man shoots Strand a wary but reverent look. Alex glances at Richard, whose face is carefully blank. He doesn’t comment on the man’s words when they get back to his office.

But he doesn’t need to. Simon verifies it for Alex in that irritatingly vague way of his.

“Dr. Strand? You’ve seen his power firsthand.”

“It’s not like I have a big group of prophet friends that I can compare him to,” Alex grouses, rolling her eyes. Simon only shrugs.

“But you _feel_ his power. Don’t you?”

Alex pauses. Simon gives her a knowing look, a single brow raised. He’s gone before she can give him the finger.

\---

Something’s going to happen soon. Alex is no clairvoyant, but she can feel _something_ in the air. And it seems like the universe is preparing her. Amalia gives her a small lock-picking kit and a meaningful look. YouTube keeps recommending her those self-defense videos like “ESCAPING ZIP TIES” and “7 Foolproof Ways to Disarm Someone with a Gun”. Coralee Strand, of all people, slips her a wickedly sharp knife one of the few times she’s out on the street without Richard.

“Keep him safe,” is all she says before disappearing in the crowd. It’s fucking weird. But Alex keeps the knife anyways, hiding it in the heavy-duty boots she always wears. She watches the videos, learns basic lock-picking, and starts wearing bobby pins in her hair and hiding them in the seams of her jackets in case she’s without her kit. It never hurts know too much.

\---

It all comes in handy when Alex wakes up in the middle of barren, unfamiliar room. The door’s lock is easy, and the second she steps out into the empty hallway, she can feel a pulse of energy somewhere deeper in the building, the hair at the nape of her neck standing on edge.

She follows it to large chamber where members of the Order are standing in a tight circle, arms raised as they chant. She can see Richard at the center, arms bound to a chair as his fingers claw at the wooden splintering under his grip. Blood drips from his nose and lips and a cut on his forehead, and his eyes are a glowing silver that complement the waves of pure cosmic energy that blanket the room, threatening to bowl her over. He looks so, _so_ dangerous. For a seemingly endless moment, Alex is afraid to move, afraid that the second she steps close enough his eyes will snap to her and he’ll eat her alive without a second thought. But then he screams, and that’s his voice, cracking in pain. It’s not a god, nor a monster. It’s just Richard Strand. And he’s _hers_.

The lights flicker; something dark and positively _evil_ starts to rise from the stone floor, a bitter copper smell sweeping the room. At that point, Alex stops thinking and just starts moving, slashing her way through the circle, to Richard. She cuts him free, loops his arm over her shoulder and hoists him up, ignoring the burning pain of his skin against hers. They turn to leave but Thomas Warren stands in their way, expression furious.

Before Alex can even think to thrust her knife out, Richard turns his eerie gaze onto the man and sweeps his arm, tossing him, without touching him, against the stone wall like he weighs nothing. There’s a crack and nothing more.

Alex doesn’t have time to register that Richard probably just _killed_ Thomas Warren before she spots Simon waving from the balcony, pointing at the door beneath him before disappearing. They stumble out of the room as the Order members scream in agony behind them, following Simon down endless, winding hallways. Strand sags against her as they hobble along, the energy draining out of him with every step. Simon suddenly appears and yanks a door open, shoving them out and hissing “ _go_ ” before slamming it shut. And then they’re outside, squinting against the desert sun.

Alex looks up and sees Coralee Strand walking towards them. She blinks a few times, tempted to pinch herself; maybe it’s all just a dream. But it isn’t, because Coralee tosses something to her and she catches it, with a bit of fumbling. Car keys, presumably to the sedan she’d been standing next to. Coralee gives her a quick nod before stepping closer to Richard, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Richard. I hope you’ll forgive me someday.”

Those murmured words seem to startle Strand out of his daze. He pulls her closer and rests his hand against the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the long, smooth strands of her hair; it’s a familiar action that even 20 years of separation can’t erase. He leans in and whispers something in her ear.

Alex can’t find it in herself to feel jealous. Even if Richard Strand is the overlap in the Venn diagram charting Coralee and Alex’s lives, their respective relationships with him are nothing alike. They’re different people, loving him at different times, in different ways. It’s like apples to oranges.

Coralee walks into the building without a backwards glance and they speed away, the structure exploding behind them. Richard’s hands tighten on his knees as the eruption shakes the car. But he doesn’t say anything.

It isn’t until they’ve driven miles away, when the building entombing Thomas Warren and the Order of the Cenophus isn’t visible except for a thick plume of dark smoke, that Richard speaks. Alex stops the car on the side of the lonely highway road and his hands curl carefully around her waist, fearful that he might hurt her again by pressing the burning fire of heaven’s gift into her skin. But he stops being careful as she clumsily gathers him in her arms, fingers tangling in his hair as her lips press against his jaw.

“I thought it was about us,” he mumbles into her hair, his hand stroking a long line down Alex’s back that makes her shiver. She hums quietly, encouraging him to continue. His hands shake imperceptibly.

“I was…there was a prediction of failure in the face of true evil and I thought it was us. I thought we would lose.”

Alex looks up at him, giving him a grin that she knows will make his heart stop. And it does; she can see it in his eyes, bright with adoration. She knows that her gaze mirrors that love, because it’s all she can feel in her heart right now, this undefinable amount of love for such an undefinable man.

“Us losing? Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> black tapes was my first spooky podcast and, honest to god, i miss richard and alex so much it's killing me  
> come find me on[ tumblr](https://shizuoi.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk more!


End file.
